The fastest way to his new goal was to enter a road rally inspired by yet another movie — the 1976 cult classic The Gumball Rally. The film depicted a madcap outlaw road race; its real-life version is a 3,000-mile celebrity-and-socialite-studded international road rampage first organized in Europe in 1999. There are no qualifying events, and no experience is required. Entrants need both flash (tricked-out Bentleys, Porsches, and Lamborghinis encouraged) and cash (28,000 pounds sterling — about $56,425 — for the 2007 rally), as well as the ability to keep a straight face while agreeing to a code of conduct that explicitly prohibits breaking any laws — including the speed limit. But while most Gumballers are rich young men paying for 3,000 miles of silicon-bimbo'd pit stops and Vegas-weekend-style bad-boy hoo-ha, Roy was one of the few actually racing to win.

He impressed the 2003 Gumball entry committee by topping the already well-represented freak factor: He wore a pastiche of authentic international police outfits and drove a rare E39 BMW M5 he claimed was used by the elite German "Autobaun Interceptor Unit," complete with police sirens and stickers. Roy's "Polizei 144" shtick added yet another layer of slapstick to the Gumball's air of a movie-come-to-life. Roy established a reputation as a fun-loving clown who also happened to be a fast, safe driver. He was an instant hit with race fans. His Web site attracted a small but faithful following that bought $500 Polizei 144 racing jackets and downloaded clips from his "Spirit of the Gumball" trophy win in the 2003 run, held in the US.

Daylight Cruising

Video: Courtesy Gravid Films

Most of the comments on his site were typical rock-on fan blurts, but one was a challenge to "check out the real deal." Roy followed a Web link and, stunned, met his newest dream.

Once again, it was a movie — this time a trailer for a documentary-in-progress titled 32 Hours 7 Minutes, covering the transcontinental racing record set by Diem and Turner. Here was an automotive stunt that had remained unequaled for almost 22 years. Anyone who topped it would be guaranteed fame and street cred; for Roy, this was Rendez-vous déjá vu. He immediately called the filmmaker, a diminutive speed fanatic named Cory Welles. Roy had the funding — and the perfect ending for her movie.

Most people rememberThe Cannonball Run as a campy '80s road comedy featuring, among others, Roger Moore, Dom DeLuise, and Farrah Fawcett. But to gearheads, the Cannonball Run is the original outlaw cross-country road race, organized by legendary Car and Driver writer Brock Yates. Entrants drove everything from cheap beaters to high-priced tweakers, but all had an appetite for white lines, black tar, and speed.

Officially known as the Cannonball Baker Sea-to-Shining-Sea Memorial Trophy Dash (and later as the US Express race) the race set the standard for outlaw driving. This was uniquely American car culture — free and fun and fast. And nobody was faster than Diem and Turner, who hammered their 308 Ferrari from a garage on Manhattan's Upper East Side to Newport Beach, California, in an unthinkable 32 hours and 7 minutes.

According to Yates and his fellow Cannonballers, trying to beat that record today is pointless. Their argument goes something like this: Cannonball records were set back when the free-wheelin' '70s hooked up with the greed-is-good '80s for fat lines of cocaine and unprotected sex. But these, brother, are Patriot Act days — executive-privilege end times in which no rogue deed goes untracked, no E-ZPass unlogged, no roaming cell phone unmonitored by perihelion satellite. Big Brother is definitely watching. Big Speed, the old Cannonballers say, is a quaint, 20th-century idea, like pay phones or print magazines.

But nobody had telexed Roy or his new filmmaker pal, Welles, the memo on this one. Once again, Roy put his formula in motion. First, he planned for weeks. Then, with his high school friend Jon Goodrich as copilot and cameraman James Petersmeyer tucked in the backseat, Roy left Manhattan's Classic Car Club on December 16, 2005, and drove west, fast. They arrived at the Santa Monica Pier in California bleary-eyed, exhausted, and frightened — and two hours and 39 minutes shy of the record.

Roy and Goodrich flew back to New York to revamp their calculations and tried again on April 1, 2006. They were zeroing in on the 32:07 space shot — until the car broke down in Oklahoma. Roy was devastated. He immediately began planning another run.

But this time, Roy returned to his calculations by himself. Two hairy cross-country runs had been more than enough for Goodrich, and he simply wasn't willing to continue risking life, limb, and liberty for another man's dream. By now, though, replacing his copilot was the least of Roy's Cannonball problems. Despite the nondisclosure agreements, word was getting around. Back in September 2005, Roy's bearded and bullying Gumball 3000 frenemy, Richard Rawlings, had bet him $25,000 on a cross-country race — and another $25,000 that Rawlings would do it in less than 25 hours.

Roy refused the challenge, but it clearly meant time was running out. Sooner or later, somebody was going to try to break that record. If they succeeded, went on Leno, stole the glory — that would be bad for Roy. But if they got caught trying, that was even worse. Roy was sure that the police would then crack down, and the window of opportunity for his cross-country sneak would slam shut forever.

In fact, that window was closing already. After so many high-speed cross-country runs, Roy wasn't famous — but his antics were. He was already well remembered in Arizona, where he'd been arrested for speeding during a 2004 rally called the Bullrun wearing jackboots, German police togs, and a regulation leather police belt with handcuffs. (The concerned police psychiatrist asked Roy, "Do you know what year this is?") Ohio presented another problem. While running nearly 120 mph in a 55 zone on the return trip from the aborted Cannonball run with the English copilot, he'd been hit with radar by a westbound state trooper, leading to a tense, 20-minute Smokey-Bandit chase deep into farm country. Roy managed to escape, but the Ohio state patrol would be unlikely to forget the blue BMW loaded with weird antennas.

Roy faced similar problems in Pennsylvania and Oklahoma. On the April 2006 trip, Pennsylvania police dispatch reported a BMW without taillights speeding down the interstate. Then, waiting in the airport after the Oklahoma breakdown, Roy made the mistake of running his mouth off on a cell phone. The traveler in line behind him couldn't help noticing the strange bald man and overhearing words like night vision, escape, cops, and spotter plane. He called in a potential homeland security threat.

Roy eventually made it home, but Oklahoma authorities tracked his car to the local BMW dealership. The cops impounded the vehicle — still loaded with GPS units documenting his street racing — for three days while they investigated Roy.

By fall 2006, the run-ins had reached critical mass. Before long, Roy feared, state authorities would connect the dots and shut him down for good. Within a month, winter snow might kill his time, and spring might be too late. If Roy was going to break the record, it was now or never. But first, he needed a new copilot.